


Heavy Hearts, Bloody Bonds

by Chaos_Greymistchild



Category: Bleach
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Assault, Blood and Gore, Body Horror, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, M/M, Mind Control, Necromancy, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Sexual Assault, Slow Burn, The Author Regrets Nothing, does it count as necromancy if everyone in ss is already dead, i guess, no beta we die like men, she has a really minor role tho
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-18
Updated: 2020-03-04
Packaged: 2020-03-07 08:02:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18869086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chaos_Greymistchild/pseuds/Chaos_Greymistchild
Summary: Kisuke always knew that Soul Society, and C46 especially, were as twisted as the roots of a century old creeping vine, squeezing every last drop of life out of strong, millennia old trees and into its own parasitic vines. A lifetime of being the Rukongai brat dragged up from the sewers had taught him that. He'd always known that. But he'd never,never, thought that they would go so far.When was the last time he'd breathed?When was the last time he'd blinked his eyes?(When was the last time his Undead body had feigned life?)





	1. Bond

**Author's Note:**

> Day 1: Canon Divergence | ~~Time loop | Time Travel/Dimension Travel~~

Kisuke kept his head bowed and his eyes on the ground. 

A fist crashed into his face. He swayed with the blow, spitting bloo d  onto the lushly carpeted floor. 

“Are  you  paying attention to what I’m saying at all?” The noble shouted. 

“Yes,” Kisuke forced out through gritted teeth, then, no matter how much he hated it or the way it burned on his tongue, “Master.”

Kisuke had always known that Soul Society, and C46 especially, were as twisted as the roots of a century old creeping vine, squeezing every last drop of life out of strong, millennia old trees and into its own parasitic vines. A lifetime of being the Rukongai brat dragged up from the sewers had taught him that. He'd always known that. But he'd never,  _ never _ , thought that they would go so far.

He bowed low, low enough to touch his head to the ground in  dogeza . A wrathful blaze burned low in his chest, like the s mouldering amber coals of a bank ed flame. 

“Kill this person,” the noble eventually hissed at him, throwing a photo — taken with  _ his _ cameras, judging by the quality and angle of the shot, Kisuke noted with a quicksilver flash of  mingled  anger and pride — onto the ground. He tentatively raised his head, and when no boot came crashing down on him, dragged the picture closer to him to see who it depicted clearer. 

“ Kuchiki  Rukia,” he said flatly.

“She ’ s just a Rukongai orphan rat, adopted by  Kuchiki Byakuya  because she happens to look like his Rukongai whore of a wife,” the noble spat at him, too enraged at the perceived slight against the nobility and the “dirtied” pedigree of the  Kuchiki  family to lash out against Kisuke for speaking out of turn. “She’s with that Kurosaki substitute Shinigami,”

Kisuke nodded to show that he understood his orders and bowed out of the room, walking backwards and backing out the door until he couldn’t see the noble anymore. 

“A rare treat to see you brought so low,” a smooth voice said from behind him. 

Despite himself, Kisuke felt his back tense and lock with hatred. 

“Aizen,” he snarled in rage.

“Now, now,” his most hated enemy chuckled, “Don’t strain yourself, Kisuke. Don’t want to end up with no free will at all, do you?”

“Fuck off,” 

“Is that any way to speak to your creator?” Aizen asked with a smooth charismatic smile. 

A sword — not Benihime, never Benihime, they took her away, they took his soul away — placed to the illusionist's neck and eyes sharp and cold as stone were all the answer that question deserved. 

Aizen just laughed, shaking his head slightly, not the least bit concerned about the bare steel at his naked throat, metal  as  freezing cold  as  a blade of ice and just as biting.

He bent down, a thin red line appearing as he lowered his head that bare centimetre to whisper in Kisuke’s ear, “Darling,” Aizen purred for the sheer thrill it sent down his spine to see the annoying scientist unable to argue or fight back, “You aren’t able to hurt me. You’ll  _ never _  be able to hurt me.”

Kisuke bared his teeth in a parody of a smile, but his arm was already shaking with the effort to keep it there, where it was drawing a thin line of glorious crimson, fighting that alarm blaring through his mind telling him to  _ stop stop stop can’t fight creator can’t hurt creator can’t kill stop stop stop forgive me forgive me forgive me _ .  Within another few seconds, his arm fell by his side, sword tumbling out of his grip. A couple more seconds than last time, his mind noted before he was dragged under by that storm of blinding, deafening, numbing, binding enchantment, and he was on his knees at Aizen-sama's feet begging for forgiveness, willing to do  _ anything _ , anything at all, if it would earn himself the forgiveness of the one who made him.

Even give his soul over to Aizen. Even let Aizen bind him tighter and tighter. Even walk into a  cage forged of his own blood- steel soul.

Even let Aizen reach int o his chest and touch his still -beating, bloo d- splattered heart.

Kisuke wrenched away with a gasp, holding his chest, eyes fixed on Aizen’s hand, dripping with deep red heart’s blood. He dragged his eyes up to meet Aizen’s, then shivered,  chilled by the insane, blood- crazed glint in the illusionist’s eyes. 

“Run along now, little bug,” Aizen murmured, still gripped tight in the masking, blinding, dizzyingly beautiful clasp of bloodlust.

Kisuke scrambled away as fast as he could down the hall. 

He’d known that something had always been... off, in Aizen. Some mysterious neuron didn’t match up, or some chemical didn’t quite make its way into hi s brain, but... t oday, he’d gotten, for the first time, a glimpse into just how  _ wrong _ the Fifth Division leader really was.

And it terrified him.

Maybe if he had Benihime by his side, maybe if his soul was whole, maybe if wasn’t under Aizen’s thumb, maybe if he had even a semblance of free will... maybe then, he wouldn’t be so frightened. 

But he didn’t have any of those things, and he was completely, utterly, keenly aware of just how terrible things could turn out for himself, if Aizen just deigned to reach out and take.

Kuchiki  Rukia would die.

Being under the rule of an ignorant noble, who didn’t know horror and blood and bone like he or Aizen did, would be better, safer than following every order , every insane fantasy,  that the Fift h Division Captain could think of .

Kuchiki  Rukia would die.

The  _ target _  would die.


	2. Partner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Lot Of Bad Shit Happens: the movie, basically.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: mind control, descriptions of non-consensual self-harm from mind control, Aizen Being A Creepy Fuck, assault, graphic murder, even more assault, gory healing, sexual assault.
> 
> Please keep these in mind, regulate your own reading, and remember that this is a Bad Fic.

He slipped into the Kuchiki residence under the cover of the night.

It was a full moon.

The light shone over the gardens and the engawa.

It illuminated everything in a silver glow.

It was a necessary risk.

Guards would be more wary on moonless nights.

He slipped into the room of the target without a sound.

The target was missing.

He remembered his briefing.

The target was fond of the substitute shinigami, Kurosaki Ichigo.

The target was likely in the room that was loaned to Kurosaki Ichigo.

He made his way into the room of Kurosaki Ichigo.

The target was there.

He crept onto the tatami and removed all sound from his tabi with a brief moving of lips.

The target was just out of reach.

He moved closer.

He walked around the target for a better angle.

Kurosaki Ichigo woke up.

He felt a flash of shock.

He lunged for the target with the knife in his hand.

He was slammed into the wall.

He pulled out his nameless sword and tried again.

Kurosaki Ichigo was beyond strong.

His vision faded to black.

 

 

Kisuke woke up on an unusually soft surface. It seemed to almost caress his body, bending and dipping under his weight to create a comfortable surface to lie on. A… futon, if he was remembering right.

Why would anyone want him on a futon?

Unless….

He opened his eyes.

He was in a room, tatami flooring, a lone wall scroll depicting flowers, signed and stamped by some artist he hadn’t heard of.

He was in the target’s-- _Rukia’s_ room. On her futon. Right. How was he not ice cubes again?

“You’ve finally woken up, I see, Kisuke,”

Yoruichi.

He closed his eyes again, this time in a resignation. He would recognise that voice anywhere.

“Yoruichi,” he said, voice more tired and weary than he had ever heard himself.

“Open your eyes, Kisuke,” she ordered.

He obeyed. He had served so long at the feet of nobles with the same voice, full of arrogance and confidence, certain that their orders would be carried out, that he couldn’t have stopped himself obeying out of instinct any more than he could have stopped himself from wishing for the sword of his soul.

“What have they done to you?” she asked in a dismayed whisper, eyes sad and turning blanker with every unspoken moment that widened the gaping chasm between them.

Kisuke wants to tell her, want to tell her so badly that he almost _burns_ with it, but he knows better. He knows better. If he opens his mouth, then he will close his teeth with a snap over his tongue. If he takes a brush in hand, then his hands will smear it over his fingers in a binding seal. If he manipulates his fingers in sign, they will methodically break themselves, one by one, on doors, on tables, on themselves.

“I can’t--” he says instead, voice breaking, “I-- I physically can’t--” his teeth snap shut, and it is only by a stroke of insane luck that he manages to keep from biting his tongue off. Yoruichi’s expression darkens as she unravels that cut-off statement with the all the cold, ruthless intelligence that made her the best Stealth Forces Commander in Seireitei history.

“Who?” she asks, then cuts herself off, “No, you can’t tell me, can you?”

Kisuke opens his mouth, slowly tests the Intent of his Soul Binding, before speaking again, “No, I can’t tell you.”

Pity finally enters her eyes, and he looks away.

“Oh, Kisuke,” she murmurs, and he can’t take it, he just can’t.

“Yoruichi,” he says in that dead voice, heavy with resignation, monotone and flat.

That snaps her out of her contemplation.

“Urahara Kisuke, Kurosaki Ichigo will be looking after you as you recover, after which you will report that Kuchiki Rukia was injured, however you were injured in battle with Ichi-kun, and have spent the following days recovering enough to report back,” she commands with authority behind every syllable, enough authority that Kisuke can almost imagine that it was one of his Bond Holders who had given him his orders... which was exactly what Yoruichi had wanted.

Finally, after so long, Kisuke was able to bring a genuine, teasing smirk to his face, one equal to Yoruichi’s best prankster grin.

They were together again, just the two of them against the entire world.

 

 

A table is upended in his direction. Kisuke doesn’t dodge, already having calculated the trajectory of the falling table and safe in the knowledge that it wouldn’t hit him.

“How could you fail!” the noble screamed at him. “You’ve never failed before!”

He kept his eyes averted. “The Kurosaki boy is as strong as rumours say—”

An object flew through the air and he swayed, a blinding pain on his head nearly sending him sprawling. Blood from where the thrown vase had cut open his head dripped into his eyes. He didn’t dare raise a hand to clear his vision.

Quiet footsteps.

“My, my, Tsunayashiro, what a mess you have made,” a smooth voice said.

Kisuke didn’t so much as tense as he relaxed into his guard. Pliant and ready to move in whichever direction whenever ready.

“It failed its task,” the noble whined.

“Then kill him or leave him to me to punish,”

The noble snarled and snapped for a moment, before Aizen’s hard stare drove him from the room.

Aizen crouched in front of him, a looming shadow.

“Yare, yare, I never expected you to actually _fail_ ,” Aizen said, voice lightly teasing, “It reflects badly on me, the creator, you know?”

Kisuke raised his head. “Fuck you,” he hissed, spitting a mixture of blood and saliva in the shinigami’s face.

Aizen wiped it off his face, expression blank. A sudden slap sent Kisuke sprawling.

Aizen leant down and picked him up by the hair. He hissed and gripped Aizen’s sleeve to try to lessen the weight being dragged up by his hair.

Aizen shook his hand irritably. A pained cry was ripped from Kisuke’s lips as his hair was wrenched from side to side. “Now, now, Kisuke, what have we said about that flapping mouth of yours?”

He was torn between mouthing off at Aizen again, and clamping his mouth shut out of fear.

The decision was taken out of his hands when Aizen forced his thumb into his mouth, yanking his head again to open his mouth. Fingers curled like claws dug into the hinge of his jaw.

The door banged open behind them. Aizen whirled around, and while he couldn’t see the expression on his face, he could feel that burning wrath in the reiatsu pressing down on him.

The footsteps he could hear faltered. “Ah, Aizen-sama, I didn’t realise—”

The anger vanished, fading like summer rain. “Not to worry, Soujoku-san. You’ve arrived at just the right time, actually.”

The person – Soujoku, of Kannogi, lower noble, barely a thimble of reiatsu above that of an unseated Shinigami – warily walked further into the room.

“Don’t move,” Aizen ordered.

He heard the footsteps halt but _knew_ that it was for him.

When Aizen let go of his face and hair, he strained to remain in the unbalanced, half-crouched stance Aizen had left him in. A smile grew across Aizen’s mouth, self-satisfied and sly, and as uncaring as a feline with a mouse trapped between its paws.

“ _Good_ boy,” Aizen murmured.

The endearment grated against him, a knife to his ripped open soul, but all he could do was stay there, unmoving.

“My darling Kisuke, surely you didn’t think you would go unpunished, or that I would let you go without some… remedial training, did you?”

Aizen turned to face Soujoku. “Come on over, Soujoku-san, it’s quite alright,” he coaxed.

Soujoku walked to stand beside Aizen, careful in that certain way when a person became achingly aware of their every move.

“Would you like to hit him?” Aizen asked, still in that light, friendly tone.

“Excuse me?”

“Kisuke, would you like to hit him,” Aizen’s voice took on a patient, long-suffering tone, as he waved a hand at Kisuke to illustrate his point.

He didn’t like the sudden, barest hint of excitement that tinged Soujoku’s reiatsu.

“You wouldn’t— mind?”

“I wouldn’t be offering if I minded.”

Still that patient, doting, slightly exasperated tone. Like a teacher repeating the same instructions for the nth time to a favoured student.

“It is my greatest desire to see you burn in hell,” he slipped out between gritted teeth.

Aizen’s eyes turned stormy behind that placid, smiling mask.

“Please, Soujoku-kun, be my guest.”

Soujoku beamed, and his heart dropped into his stomach. He saw stars. Cold wood chilled against his cheek and his sprawled limbs. That bastard noble had punched him in the face.

“Did I say you could move?” a smooth voice purred at his ear.

“No, Aizen-sama,” he dared to say, raising his head woozily to raise to his knees again.

A hand dragged him up by the hair again, and that velvet whisper turned silk inside steel. “Did. I. say. that you could talk?”

Kisuke didn’t dare test his luck again, just shook his head, despite his dizziness and hauled himself to his knees.

“You’ve learned, good. Now, _don’t. move._ ”

The next blow was a kick to his chest. He folded over the foot, gasping for breath. Aizen nudged his shoulder back with his foot, forcing him back into a straight-backed position. Flaming pinpricks of pain dragged at his chest with every breath. Broken ribs fractured at best.

“Can you-?” Soujoku made a vague up-and-down motion with his hand.

Aizen kicked him in the chest, in the exact same spot as Soujoku had earlier. His vision whited out, pain thundering down on him. He shuddered for breath, choked on spit and blood. His left leg was on fire and limp. Broken at the knee. His right arm splayed out and numb. Blood splattered half his vision.

“Oh, no, no, no,” he could hear Aizen mourning dimly, from a great distance, “This won’t do at all. Come back, darling. _Come back to me, Kisuke, this is an order_.”

Blinding pain. Fire, everywhere. Strange spots of chill numbness. Drowning in something thick and heavy. He was dying. He

A whisper by his ear. He turned incrementally towards it. Something inside him told him this was important.

“ _Kill Soujoku_.”

Metal in his hand, slicing his fingers, pain barely felt next to the hellfire frozen inside him. He could only stumble forwards, legs shattered, then melting together again, reforming, an acid pain setting them alight again.

Soujoku kept scrambling away from him, reiatsu overwhelmingly soaked in terror. Then he made a mistake. The noble stepped into shunpo.

He drank deep of the reishi running high in the air.

His body healed in an instant and where Soujoku sped through the air, he _blurred_. He struck, again and again. Fury shook his frame and he couldn’t tell if the screaming could hear was his or Soujoku’s. The wet patches on his skin grew larger and seeped through his clothes.

Eventually he slowed, blade falling less and less frequently. He stilled, crouched over something bloody, hacked to pieces, unrecognisable.

“Well done, Kisuke,” Aizen said softly, one hand on his shoulder.

Deft hands plucked the sword—Kyouka Suigetsu—from his hand. The blade, fused to his flesh when he had healed, sliced his palm open again on the way out. He blinked the blood out of his eyes. A gentle hand brushed against his cheek, coaxing him to turn around. It felt important to obey. A nose nuzzled at his cheek, then lips pressed against his own.

“ _Very_ well done,” that velvet voice murmured against him.

He leaned into the praise. A hand rested against the back of his neck, tugging him in gently, but firmly. Lips moved against his own, a tongue flicking out to tease at the seam of his lips.

His eyes shot open. _Aizen_.

Kisuke shoved his elbow up between them. Aizen dodged backwards, then thrust a palm up, pushing his arm up further. Perhaps he was feeling indulgent from before but—

Aizen let him go.

He scanned the room wildly, Aizen standing there with an indulgent smile, an unrecognisable corpse at his feet.

He fled the room.


End file.
